


The Alchemist: Ritual Magic

by auberus, Morgyn Leri (morgynleri)



Series: Philosopher's Stone [4]
Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Burn Notice, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, GFY, Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 22:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1242850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auberus/pseuds/auberus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/pseuds/Morgyn%20Leri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thrown into a world not her own, Hermione Granger has made a life for herself as the alchemist-sorceress in the court of Henry of Monmouth, crowned King Henry V of England in April 1413. Now, she needs something or someone who can help her bring about the plans of her patron to unite both the wizarding world of England and the muggle world before turning his sights on France.</p><p>She's not expecting Michael Westen to be dragged across time and space into the ritual circle the spell requires. Life is bound to become more interesting from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Alchemist: Ritual Magic

**Author's Note:**

> The editing on this story was finished for [Royalty Story Big Bang](http://royaltystory.dreamwidth.org/), and is the first of what will hopefully be a series.
> 
> The art for this was done by mella68, and is [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1241764). Thank you so much!
> 
> Further thanks to lferion for listening to me tear my hair out while getting the editing done.

Hermione lit the last candle, careful not to scuff the chalk markings on the floor. There are times when half of what she does when she's working magic is for show, when she has an audience larger than one, but every mark she's painstakingly drawn out on the stone flags, and the rituals she's done to cleanse herself and her lab... all of it's been part of the spell. That, and the lack of an audience, even Henry, while she's attempting to complete the ritual that should provide her with the needed assistance to keep the wizarding world away from her and Henry once it becomes known she has a philosopher's stone and the will to use it for the benefit of a Muggle.

She begins her chant, the words quietly spoken but still holding no little power for that. The lines on the floor begin to glow, coruscating colors that wind along the lines and spark where they find an angle or an end. Power all but crackles in the air as she raises her hands, her wand ignored where it rests on her work bench. She can feel the magic singing through her, bending to her will in a way that isn't nearly so obvious in most of the spells she does. Rather like controlling a horse, though with a good deal greater a chance she'd end up dead if she fails to control it.

It feels like she's trying to pull a well-built wall down with nothing more than a rope and her own strength, and Hermione unconsciously braces her feet, refusing to give up without retrieving what she seeks. Dragging it to her across whatever distance it has to come, and stumbling when she hears a thump, and the pressure is suddenly absent. She catches herself against the work bench, fumbling for her wand as she observes what she's brought. It's a person-shaped lump, at any rate, and that means that she'll want to keep her wand to hand until she knows who it is, and how they can help.

And perhaps allow Henry to come from the antechamber into the main room, now that the ritual itself is complete. Him and whoever he has with him, as he's sure to have at least Scroop and Cambridge, and possibly one or the other of his brothers. Humphrey, in particular, has been curious about what she can teach him about the astrology she claims to be a practitioner of. It only takes a flick of her wand to unward the door and unbar it so Henry can enter.

"What did it bring you?" Henry enters almost as soon as she has the door unsealed, his eyes drawn to the figure collapsed in the center of the faded circle on the floor. "Or, perhaps I ought to ask you who it brought you."

"I don't know yet." Hermione shrugs. "It may have momentarily disoriented our guest, Your Majesty, as he has yet to look up." That, or the person is trying to get an idea of their surroundings before they let on that they're conscious. "I would not be terribly concerned as yet."

There's something in the man's expression as he opens his eyes, and pushes himself into a sitting position that is more than annoyance at finding himself somewhere he is unfamiliar with. He's dressed as if he's stepped back from her own time, and straight out of the Muggle world, so Hermione would be surprised if he were familiar with this place. It's not as if this room is on a tour of Westminster.

After he sits up, the man's expression becomes concerned as he looks around, and then the annoyance returns.

"Where am I, and why the hell am I here?" he demands as he gets to his feet, shifting slightly as if checking hidden weapons. The spell wouldn't have disarmed him, so Hermione at least knows he'll have the reassurance of weapons on his person.

Though his question is not one that's necessarily easy to answer, despite the ready answers she can give him. Not when she's uncertain if she should be relieved to see someone who at least theoretically shouldn't treat her as less because she's female, or if she should be worried that the spell reached across time as well as space to bring a Muggle from the future to her. It's not the sort of solution she'd been thinking of when she wanted to find a way to help manage her issues with the current wizarding world - or rather, their problems with her existance.

In the end, she settles on something of both, with a healthy dose of relief that Henry is alone tonight, rather than bringing with him one of his usual constant companions.

"Westminster Palace, and it's the thirty-first of October, 1413, if you'd like to know. As for why, that would be the result of the spell I had cast to seek and bring to me a potential solution to - or at least something to aid me with - a problem that exists between me and the current wizarding world."

Which is to say, that they have even less care or appreciation for a Muggle-born witch than their pureblood counterparts of the twentieth century. Especially not when that witch has inadvertantly revealed magic to a member of the royal family, and subsequently been taken under his protection. A few have since learned the hard way that efforts to rid the world of Hermione aren't as easy as they think they should be, though some others are proving rather more dense.

"This is the fifteenth century," the man says after a long moment, watching Hermione with an expression that says clearly that he doesn't want to believe a word she's saying. Not that he doesn't believe her, but that he doesn't want to. She can sympathize with that desire, as she'd had much the same when she first arrived here.

"And you brought me here to deal with a bunch of wizards." His smile is entirely too wide, and Hermione presses her lips together, reminding herself that her unexpected guest will be disinclined to help her if she harms him. "I'm flattered, but I'm afraid I'll have to decline. I'm kind of busy right now, so you'll just have to put me back where, and _when_ , you found me."

"I can't." Hermione doesn't bother to sound apologetic - there's nothing she can do, and there had been no way to know precisely what the spell would give her before she began. That uncertainty may be why the spell had become virtually unknown by the twentieth century, though she cannot be certain. "The spell's not meant to be reversed."

It also, strictly speaking, isn't meant to reach across centuries, though she leaves that part unsaid. Not because she doesn't know how that might have happened, but because she _does_ , and to meddle with the Rift in Cardiff is a fool's game, as she's learned the hard way. Five years trapped in a century she was not born to, after being dropped in the Thames in full view of Henry. Then Prince of Wales, and only six months crowned King of England now.

A king who is studying their new arrival with an expression that is one of reserved judgement and patience, tinged with some hint of approval. At least he isn't demanding that the man be removed, as she could well imagine he would if he thought the man a danger.

"So I'm stuck here permanently." The man uncurls his fists with a visible effort, though there's some anger still tightening the corners of his eyes and turning down the corners of his mouth. He hides it well, but not entirely, as if he's accustomed to keeping his emotions from sight. "Did it ever occur to you to wonder what you were interrupting? I was in the middle of an operation!"

Whatever it was he was doing, no doubt he considers it important, and possibly so did others. At this point, Hermione doesn't really care, since it's not as if there's anything any of them can do about it. She glares at the man, though it's more tired annoyance than anger at this point - the spell is exhausting, and the strain is beginning to catch up with her.

"I didn't target you specifically, as the spell doesn't _do_ that. Given the spell-caster's strongest needs, and a geographical scope, it finds the best item - or sometimes, person - to meet that need. It's particularly useful in the sort of situation which I find myself in, but is not as useful for lesser desires. That the spell reached temporally as well as geographically suggests that certain factors beyond my control were acting upon the spell."

She draws a breath, crossing her arms as she continues to watch the man with a steady gaze, despite the skepticism in his expression.

"As for what I interrupted, what do you expect me to do now? Even if I were able to return you as close as possible to where you vanished, the damage would still be done. I would offer apologies, save those tend to require actual contrition and a desire not to repeat the action which caused offense. I would do this again even if I knew what it would do, because once it is complete, what happened in the twentieth century _does not matter_ , as it will never be the same again."

The man mutters in what Hermione thinks is Russian from the sound, and likely something rather rude. It doesn't change things, but if it makes it easier for the man to accept the truth, than she's inclined to ignore the curses.

"You're right," he says after a moment. "What's done is done, and what's left to do matters more." He flashes a brief almost-smile, offering a hand to Hermione to shake. "I'm Michael Westen."

There's something there that makes Hermione want to roll her eyes, but she takes the offered hand with a small smile of her own. "Hermione Granger. And this is my patron and employer, King Henry the Fifth of England."

She is standing such that she can see Henry watching Michael, the blond king making the most of his six-foot height as he does so. No doubt he's making his own assessment of Michael, and deciding how he wants to treat him - as servant, or something else.

At least Michael doesn't offer his hand as he had with Hermione, though even his doing that much had been something that might have been odd to anyone who was born to the role Hermione has taken up. He doesn't bow, but his accent makes Hermione think he's American, and likely would either not know, or not care to do such a thing. She's not sure if that's a relief or an annoyance.

"I'd say the pleasure was mine, but I try not to tell obvious lies," Michael says dryly after a brief moment, and Hermione relaxes a fraction when the quip draws a smile and a chuckle from Henry.

"I would say that is a good thing, indeed. Certainly it would better endear a man to me than the careful dissembling of those who wish my favor and so say what they think I should wish to hear."

Henry turns away, no doubt preferring to remove to the more comfortable confines of the ante-room, as regardless of his respect for Hermione's work and use of it, he's never been comfortable in her workroom. Michael appears no more comfortable here, and follows Henry - though the tension across his shoulders as he turns may also be because he needs to turn his back to her in order to do so. Hermione doesn't care, so long as they're both out of the room before she is.

It's better, after all, for her to be the last out of her lab, so she can seal the wards on it as she closes the door. She has enemies who are dangerous enough without allowing them to rummage through her space to find her notes and work on philosopher's stone, among other things. No need to have them achieve that particular secret.

"Lying to say what the boss wants to hear is the one inexcusable sin for anyone in my profession," she hears Michael say as she turns, seeing the men settled into two of the chairs nearest the hearth.

"And what is your profession?"

Henry glances at Hermione, smiling a moment, and tilting his head toward the hearth, where there's an earthenware jug that is scenting the air with the familiar one of wine and spices. She returns his smile gratefully, glad for the recently-familiar drink.

"I am curious, you see, about anything I might learn of the future, though it is mutable and may not be as it was before you were brought here."

Hermione joins them at the hearth after collecting goblets from the table for the wine and the cushion she uses to pad her own seat, dropping the latter into the empty chair, and passing two of the former to Henry and Michael. She adds a cushioning charm layered over the cushion itself for extra comfort, though she knows doing so in front of Muggles is a breach of the Statute of Secrecy. It doesn't matter.

She's come to the conclusion, since her precipitous arrival in this century, that as Henry has been more accomodating of her skills with magic than the wizarding world has been about their perception of her birth - correct, but still, they can't know that - the Statute of Secrecy can go hang. After all, even with that, the Muggle world still has some minor acceptance of magic, after a fashion. Indeed, as, officially, an astrologer with an abiding interest in sorcery, there is the expectation that she will work magic on behalf of Henry and of England. Most of it is cloaked in sleight of hand, astrological patter and pointless ritual when it's more than herself and her patron, when she uses real magic at all, and not knowledge of chemistry and physics.

"I'm an..." Michael is apparently watching her, and he pauses when Hermione summons the jug of mulled wine, floating it to pour into the goblets. He waits a moment before shaking his head, and beginning again. "As I was saying, I'm an intelligence officer, or I was. The usual term is spy, though the meaning has changed a bit over the centuries."

"In what manner has the profession of a spy changed?" Henry leans back in his chair, watching Michael with open and avid curiosity, one hand holding the goblet of wine with apparent carelessness. "I would think you still gather information for your masters, no matter how much else may have changed."

Hermione settles more comfortably in her own seat, content to listen to the conversation and rest after the exertion of drawing Michael here - something that she is certain would have been as tiring even if he'd been someone of this time. It is the nature of the spell. Taking a sip of her wine, she watches Michael with almost as much curiosity as Henry.

"That's my primary focus."

Michael takes a sip of the wine he'd been given, his expression not giving away what he thinks of it. Hermione hadn't been entirely certain of it the first time, but it's grown on her. Particularly since she can't get water served without people looking askance at it.

"It just isn't my only one. I divert arms sales, commit assassinations, rig foreign elections, infiltrate and destroy groups that are hostile to my country - basically, anything the government needs but can't be seen, or even suspected, to have done."

A small smile crosses Michael's face that makes Hermione wonder what he's thinking. Too bad she isn't skilled with Legilimancy, to see for herself.

"The main changes, though, are in training. I was a soldier in an elite unit before being picked to become a spy, and even I got months of training before being sent into the field."

An amused smile graces Henry's face, and he takes a sip of his wine before he says, "You do much a mercenary might be hired to do, at great expense, should I wish the rest of the world not to know what I do."

Not, Hermione knows, that Henry is likely to want an assassin or a sabotuer - those are both actions that aren't considered chivalrous or honorable, and for all his pragmatism and ruthlessness in some places, there are lines he will not cross for anything.

"Would such training as you have had also lend itself to the guarding of an individual?" That is a question Henry must be certain of the answer to, but is using as a formality to feel out Michael's opinions. Though Hermione wants to glare at him for the implication that she's unable to protect herself, she knows he worries for her safety, particularly since their long-term plans require both of them live.

"Of course. Any good assassin can do protection work - but I'm not a mercenary." There's a hint of defensiveness in Michael's voice, as if he's mildly insulted by the question. "I was a serving officer in the United States Army before I became a spy, and I've only ever employed my skills for the benefit of the country that trained me to use them."

He shrugs, leaning back in his chair in a way that makes him look far more comfortable than Hermione knows she felt in the first few months here. "On the other hand, Columbus won't discover America for another eighty-odd years, so there's no real conflict of interest.

"I assume it's Hermione you want guarded?" he asks, lifting an eyebrow.

"Naturally." Henry frowns slightly, and Hermione knows he'll be asking her more questions about the future later. She's told him many things, but there's nearly six hundred years worth of history to explain, and not nearly enough time to explain it all in. "I would not lose her simply for the sake of those who frown upon her service to her King, and claim that magic should not be used in such a fashion."

He pauses, taking another sip of his wine, watching Michael over the rim of the goblet in a way that Hermione finds amusingly familiar. "Your loyalty to your masters does you great service, though the masters you serve are as yet nothing more than a distant and unrealized dream."

It's as close to an apology for the minor insult of Henry's question as Henry will get, and Hermione is glad to see Michael nod in acceptance of it.

"Even as an unrealized dream, it deserves that kind of loyalty," Michael says quietly, though Hermione can see the statement makes him uncomfortable.

A loyalty that strong is something to be cultivated, and Hermione knows Henry will want to do so. She wonders for a moment just what Michael might have offered if he'd been born and raised in England, though she's certain Henry can wring from him as much as he does from anyone else who follows him, loyal subjects all.

"I would ask if you might show that sort of loyalty to my sorceress and to my throne, at least for such a time as that dream remains unrealized. I would not ask you to split your loyalties, for that way lies danger, but that you might give them elsewhere for a while."

"The seeds that will become my country were planted in yours," Michael says after a moment of silence. "My services aren't for sale, and neither is my loyalty, but in this century, they belong to your throne and your country by right." He nods, and leans forward, extending his hand with the goblet in toast to the bargain just offered and accepted.

Hermione refills the goblets from the pitcher, lifting her own as Henry does the same, agreeing herself to the deal, and all taking a long sip of the wine after a moment's silence. It's the perogotive of her leige, in this century, to provide her a protector as well as wages, lodging, and necessities of living. And perhaps it might be good to have someone to watch her back when she's not at her best, as she is now.

"Now that the bargain is made, it may be well to allow Lady Granger to retire to her bed, as I am certain the working that has brought you here has also caused her to tire. As often the greater magics she's worked have seemed to do." Henry gives Hermione a small, warm smile, and she returns it with a wry one of her own. She usually is more talkative than she has been this evening, and he's likely worried about her because of it.

After a moment, she nods, and rises, amused when Michael rises what appears to be reflexively, even as Henry remains seated.

"I won't thank you just yet," he says, offering his hand again. "I am, however, starting to resign myself to the change in circumstances."

Taking the offered hand, Hermione squeezes briefly, giving Michael a reassuring smile. "As I have long since resigned myself to not returning to the century from which I came. And I thank you for being willing to provide assistance, even so small a thing as watching out for me."

It will be a start, and as time goes on, Hermione thinks she will be able to convince Michael to lend more assistance to her cause and to Henry's. One thing she doesn't mention, and will not mention too soon, is that she does intend to see the twentieth century again. It will take far more time than it might if she had a spell to return her to the future, but it has already changed enough that she doesn't know if she even could return with a spell. As well, she intends to ensure Henry lives to see it as well, and perhaps might offer the same to Michael, if he's interested once she's comfortable informing him of the long-term plans.

* * *

The room is dark when Ignis apparates into it, the fire on the hearth nothing but dully glowing coals and banked heat waiting for a servant to come stir it up in the morning. He waits a moment for his eyes to adjut, his wand raised and ready as he makes out the location of the bed. That the Mudblood is foolish enough not to - or too stupid to know how to - ward her rooms against apparating only makes the question of how she managed as powerful a spell as she had the night before all the more confusing. At least she won't have the chance to do so again. It is a thought that brings a smile to his face.

His only regret is that the muggle king isn't here to see the death of his precious mudblood witch, though to wait for him to be present once more is risking the Mudblood being awake enough to cause Ignis some annoyance before he actually takes her life. Even as drained as she must be from that working, he's not stupid enough to want to face her awake.

Lifting his wand a little higher, he smiles again, casting a binding spell first, to keep her from moving as he takes his time killing her. Ignis knows he has time enough before a servant should arrive that he can draw out the Mudblood's death properly, to make sure she knows just how great a mistake she's made in serving the muggle king.

The faint scrape of metal on metal behind him is enough to make him stiffen, but he doesn't have enough time to move before pain explodes through him from back to front, and Ignis lets out his breath with a woosh as someone shoves him away from the bed, knocking him to the ground. The muggle hasn't even had the courtasy to remove his sword, and it makes it hard for Ignis to do anything but try to cling to his wand as he topples to the ground.

It doesn't do him any good, as the muggle kicks it away, before bringing a bare foot down hard on Ignis's wand hand, then on his left. Cracking bones and leaving Ignis in more pain than he'd been a moment before. Too much pain to be able to do any magic, even if he could reach his wand. All he needs to do is be able to wrap his fingers around it, no matter the pain, and he can fix everything.

The muggle, though, is a cruel sort, and Ignis can feel the pressure now being put on the sword, to prevent his moving, unless he intends to tear himself apart on the sharp steel. He silently curses - he should have made sure the room truly was empty, and the muggle king hadn't given the Mudblood greater protection. Still, not all is lost, not yet, even if he dies here.

"Hermione, are you all right?"

The muggle is a man, though with a sword the weapon of choice, Ignis hadn't expected anything else. The Mudblood remains silent, though, at least for a moment, though the silence feels more disbelieving than anything else.

"I am unharmed, though I'll be better if I had my wand in hand to cast the counter-curse to the binding charm. There aren't, after all, any knots to untie or physical ropes to cut, for all that they restrict movement."

Explaining magic to a muggle, which she shouldn't be doing, the fool girl. Ignis flicks his gaze to where his wand is, silently trying to summon it back to him with the force of his will alone. He's never been the best with wordless magic, and without a wand, it's entirely useless.

"Don't go anywhere," the muggle says before letting up the pressure on the sword. As if Ignis can readily go anywhere with a sword in his back, save to roll onto his side, trying to ease the pain a little. He watches with annoyance as the muggle picks up his wand to hand to the Mudblood. "Will this do?"

As if wands were somehow interchangeable, easily passed from one wizard to another. Idiot muggle, to make that assumption.

"Not as well as my own, but hopefully well enough for this." The Mudblood has the right of it, though Ignis hopes - vainly as it turns out - that his wand will not work at all for her. There are some wizards who are absolutely incompatable with the wands of others, after all.

He only barely manages to bite back a whimper when she snaps his wand after releasing the binding curse enough to free her arms at least. He should have used the new varient on the petrifying spell instead, as it would have been impossible for her undo without being able to speak or even flick her hand about. As it is, he meets her glare with his own, furious about the loss of his wand.

"Well, Malfoy. Good to know you're still failing to kill me." The Mudblood turns away, leaving Ignis's broken wand on the furs while she retrieves her own to summon kirtle and gown. At least she's quiet for a moment, though it doesn't last nearly long enough. "Michael, this is Ignis Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy name, fortune, and lands."

She doesn't bother to make the introductions properly, but Ignis supposes she never was taught proper manners. The folly of a muggle upbringing.

"Nice to meet you, Ignis." The muggle smiles at Ignis, though it's as shallow as any that Ignis makes at meeting those his father wishes him to cultivate. "I'm sure we'll be spending a lot of time together soon."

Not if Ignis has anything to do with it, though without his wand, he'll have to rely on others to get him out of this. At least his father is aware of what he'd planned to do tonight, and should send someone to fetch him by morning, when he's not home.

"You should probably send someone for Henry, and someone else for a doctor, unless you think the latter will do more harm than good." The muggle is looking at the Mudblood, and Ignis wants to scoff at his thought that a muggle cleric, however learned, might be of any use with wounds. "I don't think Ignis here need to be bled any more than he already has been."

"The court physician is a good healer, particularly when it comes to battlefield wounds, though he'll likely tell you there is very little chance of Ignis surviving more than a few days with a sword wound such as you've given him." The Mudblood crouches next to Ignis, her expression one of irritation and fury. "At least, when magic is left out of the equation. I know some healing spells that will repair most of the damage. I need you to pull the sword out slowly, though."

It hurts more being taken out of his body than going in, and Ignis clamps his jaw shut to keep from giving them the satisfaction of hearing him scream. The Mudblood is good to her word, though she does nothing for his broken hands - if she had, Ignis thinks he'd have wrapped them around her neck and forgone magical means of killing her in favor of strangling her.

The Mudblood leaves after, likely to fetch those she's spoken of, and the muggle crouches down next to Ignis, his face frighteningly blank.

"You're going to talk to me, because it's the only chance you've got to keep me from going after your family, your friends - your entire world, really." He leans in closer, and Ignis draws back, his lip curling in distaste. It only makes the muggle smile, as if he sees something in Ignis's expression other than disgust and contempt. "And just so you don't think I'm bluffing, I'll let you in on a little secret."

The muggle slices open his thumb on a knife, and Ignis feels horror welling up inside him as it heals over faster than even a spell would mend it, flickering with blue light. Not a muggle, then, but some sort of creature - demon - the Mudblood has bound to her purpose, and if it heals that quickly, it will be difficult to kill. What has the Mudblood wrought?

"I've got all the time in the world in which to keep my promise, and I will, even if it takes centuries. It probably won't, though."

Ignis is beginning to think he should have listened to the upstart soldier, Black, and brought the Mudblood back to the castle to face justice, rather than attempting to mete out her punishment here. It would have prevented this demon from capturing him, and threatening his world.

"She's a danger to us all." Ignis is almost surprised he's found his voice, though he winces at the higher-than-normal pitch of it, the strain that's clearly audible in it. "She'll expose us all to the Muggles, and they will attempt to destroy everything we have built. Burn it to the ground, as if it were something come of evil."

"Fire doesn't bother me, but I'll be sure to remember that it bothers you." The demon pats Ignis on the cheek, like he's some sort of child, and Ignis draws back with a glare and a huff of disgust. That the demon isn't bothered by fire is little surprise - even the muggles know that demons are fond of flames, and aren't touched by the fire.

It settled on the floor far too close for Ignis's comfort, and he tries to move away without causing any further pain to himself from either the half-closed wounds or his broken hands.

"So, this was a sanctioned attempt on her life?" it asks, still looking entirely too pleasant for the sort of evil it must be. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're an amateur who got carried away."

Glaring, Ignis knows he shouldn't speak to it, but he finds himself trying to convince it of why the Mudblood must be stopped anyway. As if it as him under some sort of compulsion. "She has to be stopped. There is no wizard in the world who would allow her to destroy them simply because she thinks she is above the laws of our people. And anyone who _can_ stop her will be amply rewarded."

Perhaps it will respond to promises of reward. Surely it would want something more than being the bound slave of a Mudblood who has all the world against her.

"And where is this reward coming from?" It certainly sounds interested, and Ignis allows himself to nurture a faint hope that maybe he can get through to it. Turn it against its master. "Your government? Or just members of your government, with a little more ambition than most?"

Or perhaps not. It doesn't sound as if it has any respect for the proper law, the proper way of things, with its contempt for the Council audible in its voice.

"Of course it's coming from the Council." Ignis can't help the indignant tone in his voice, and he shifts a bit more away from the demon. He presses his lips together, determined to keep silent now, since it's obvious that the demon has no desire to be freed from its bound service.

After a moment, the demon shakes its head, letting out a quiet sigh. "What a shame. And after I've given you a chance to save your family, too." It shrugs, and gets to its feet. "Ordinarily, I'd want to keep you around, let you see what you've earned by being stubborn, but I've seen that wound before. You won't last a week without help, and I'm going to take my time with the Malfoys."

Threatening, now, and not just him, though Ignis doesn't see how the demon can get into either the Malfoy home or Hogwarts. His family home is warded by powerful blood wards, and the protections on Hogwarts are even stronger, since they have to protect the most precious of all.

"If you can even find them."

"I've got all the time in the world," the demon reminds him with a cold smile. "And I've also got help. It might take some fast talking, but I'm willing to bet I can persuade Hermione to show me how to find you. That's if I can't see them on my own." The demon pauses, his eyes gleaming with a malicious delight. No wonder the Mudblood bound this to her service. "After all, I found Hogsmeade."

Which doesn't have the protections of Hogwarts, and if his sister steps outside the gates of Hogwarts, she'll be as lost as his parents.

"You leave my sister alone." The words are out of his mouth before he can even think to stop them, the pain of broken bones and punctured flesh all but forgotten as he struggles to sit up, fury fueling his defiance. "I will find a way to take you with me. Take all of you with me when you kill me. You leave her alone, all of them alone."

"Tell me what I want to know, and she'll never have to know I exist," the demon offers, sounding entirely too persuasive. Ignis doesn't doubt it will break any promise it makes as soon as he's dead, and he cannot allow Philippa to be harmed. "Otherwise, she'll live just long enough to watch the rest of your family - and your world - go first, no matter what you threaten."

His father being involved in this because of his failure, Ignis would expect. But even muggles wouldn't threaten a child simply for the deeds of their parents or siblings. Their own church forbids it, and Ignis cannot understand how the Mudblood could have come to think that she was free of all laws. Could even think of harming a child, deliberately, murdering one in cold blood for the sake of her ambition.

"It's things like you that are why we cannot trust Muggles and Mudbloods like that bitch. You'd murder _children_ because you don't like that they have something you can't have, or because someone didn't give you everything you wanted. I answered your questions, and still you threaten your evil."

"You've made a promising start." The demon gives him a look that makes it clear that Ignis could tell it everything, and it wouldn't be enough to stop it going after his parents and sister. It wants too much to have innocent blood, and Ignis clenchs his jaw tight enough to make his teeth ache with it. "Once your wounds have been seen to, we'll talk again. I've only ever heard about your world second-hand. You're going to make me an expert."

Ignis glares, shaking his head mutely. He won't give the demon the satisfaction of learning about the wizarding world, not from Ignis. Let it stumble and fail, let the Mudblood be restrained - or better, rejected - by her precious muggle king, and be condemned to the same torture and death she would send a child.

The Mudblood returns, with the muggle king at her heels as the demon finishes speaking, and the amusement on her face is enough to ensure Ignis will not be telling her or the muggle what the demon threatened. Either they already know and approve, or they will not care, not when the demon is their favorite.

"I shall assume you've been antagonizing the idiot." Even the Mudblood's words are discouraging, with her so sure that she is the better of them, and for what? She has no magical relatives, no power in the wizarding world, and no greater intelligence than the average Ravenclaw.

"Did he say anything useful?" The muggle king looks at Ignis with a brief frown before he waves forward the muggle healer, looking to the demon for answers.

Ignis tries to move away from the muggle, not willing to take his chances on their superstitions and supposed cures, even if a physical injury is something that he should hope even they have some idea on how to care for. When he encounters an invisible wall of magic, he scowls at the Mudblood, enduring the muggle with ill grace.

"Interrogating, not antagonizing," the demon corrects her, watching Ignis intently, as if daring him to say otherwise. Ignis knows this is not the place nor the people to convince of their folly, and so keeps his mouth shut. "Just a preliminary round of questions, of course. Real interrogations take a lot longer."

"Either way, it's clearly not made a good impression on him." The Mudblood settles on the edge of her bed, watching Ignis as well. "Though, as His Majesty says, was there anything useful that you were able to glean from the answers to the questions you have asked him?"

"Maybe. He claims there's a price on your head, and that it's there because he and his fear exposure. He also told me who put it there. He might have been lying, but somehow I doubt it. Fright is a very good way to motivate someone into telling the truth."

That the demon thinks Ignis fears _it_ is laughable, though the laughter trying to work its way out of him is too close to screaming for him to let it loose. It doesn't stop him from staring, wondering just what the demon thought it saw that it could make the claim he fears it. Perhaps it's not as able as it thinks, and the rest of the wizarding world is safer than it wants him to believe.

"Who did he say put the price on my head?" There's some curiosity in the Mudblood's eyes, but more a sort of resignation, as if she's expecting a particular answer, and will be little surprised by anything the demon says. As if she knows already what Ignis had told the demon, and this whole conversation is to fool him into thinking she doesn't - or perhaps, for the sake of the muggle king.

"The current Wizard's Council." The demon shrugs, as if it's not terribly important a question to answer. "I'm not sure if it's really the entire council, or just part of it, but I will find out."

"Which, at least according to the history texts I'd read at Hogwarts, is headed by Aldric Malfoy since 1402." The Mudblood's smile is cold and vicious. "Probably Ignis's father, and I wouldn't be surprised if the gold for the reward is coming from him. It's not as if I've known any Malfoys to be concerned about the permission of others, nor about the cost of destroying something or someone in their way."

The muggle king is watching Ignis - has been since he came into the room - and his expression is one Ignis can't read. He knows the muggle king is likely to have him killed, but that Ignis can face without too greatly fearing it, so long as his family is safe. Most especially, his sister, since the Mudblood and her demon have no care for the lives of even children.

"When Master Bradmore is done with the wounds the prisoner has taken, the guards can bear this wretch to a cell, there to spend his time until his trial. You shall have what time you need to extract information from him before then."

"Fair enough. He needs to be kept under constant guard, and searched before he's put into the cell. I'd suggest a change of clothes as well." The demon clearly is of the belief that the king and the Mudblood possess fabulous wealth and generosity, if it thinks they'll give any such thing to anyone, much less to someone they consider a prisoner. "Keep him isolated, too. The guards shouldn't speak to him, and he shouldn't be allowed any visitors. You might want to set wards, in case someone tries to rescue him."

Ignis wrinkles his nose at the idea of a muggle's hands all over him, and tries to bat away the hands of the muggle physician, despite the pain moving his broken hands causes him. Best they don't have any reason to think he'll tolerate such a thing as a search of his person.

"There are spells to search for weapons, or you can search him yourself, but a change of clothing for any prisoner is an expense that can't be justified in this century." The Mudblood is giving her demon a long look, as if she's annoyed that it's expecting so much from them.

"The spell is probably a good idea, if you can re-tool it so that it tells you everything he's carrying. There are people who don't need actual weapons to be armed and dangerous." The demon pauses, looking down at Ignis as if it doesn't think Ignis that intelligent, before it continues, "What about keeping a light burning in his cell? And a guard outside to wake him up whenever he falls asleep? Could that be managed?"

"A guard can be made to check him at intervals, and wake him if he sleeps, however, I would not wish to spend even the expense of rush-lights to keep him in constant light. If he were to be continually lit, he must bear that expense, and I cannot extract it readily from him."

The muggle king at least shows he is not some fool bound to the desires of the demon, though he'll allow it some leeway. Ignis wonders if he'll believe the truth about the demon, and the horrors that it threatened. He watches the muggle while the Mudblood uses magic to search him - at least she's that polite - and takes the vial he'd brought of Draught of the Living Death, as well as his dagger.

"Once the doctors have finished, you might as well lock him up," the demon says, taking the dagger from the Mudblood to study it. He smiles briefly at Ignis, though it's hard and cold, and Ignis glares back as guards come in to drag him to his feet, and to carry him off to the muggles' prison.

**Author's Note:**

> The series will continue with Soldier's Magic, which will pick up the story of Apollon Black and the Wizard's Council during this same period of time. I have no promises of _when_ it will be posted, only what the contents are planned to be.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Alchemist - Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1241764) by [mella68](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mella68/pseuds/mella68)




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